


Sensible Depravity

by thatbug



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Foul Language, Humor, M/M, One-Sided Enjolras/Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:22:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatbug/pseuds/thatbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is delighted to discover that Combeferre is in a relationship with a man. Fill for the kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sensible Depravity

**Author's Note:**

> I finally got an account, and am going to try posting some of my prompt fills. 
> 
> This one goes to this prompt: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13488.html?thread=11066544#t11066544

Antoine Combeferre had met Matthieu Barrand during his second year of university, and he had instantly fallen in love. Truly, deeply, passionately as the stories had said, stories he had not believed until he saw a tall, brown haired man stumbling in the library.

There was little that would distinguish M. Barrand from the average man. He was a few months older than Combeferre, a student of maths, neither particularly brilliant nor particularly dull. He abhorred violence, appreciated literature, and adored the gardens. He never ran where he could walk, he never shouted when a whisper would suffice, his voice was most frequently a quiet and low rumble, audible only to the person he was directly addressing. Though tall and broad about the shoulders, he took up less space in a room than a fly; that is to say he was less noticed and less remarked on. 

His appearance was equally as plain. He had dark, deep-set eyes, heavy brows, and a nose that was a touch large with a slight hook to it. His moustache was always impeccably groomed, and under it, his lips were full and his teeth were straight. His best feature was his hair, which was soft and smooth, never a bit out of place. In short, he was kind but bland, well formed but unremarkable. Combeferre adored him.

Fate can be cruel to lovers, but she was kind to Combeferre, for Matthieu returned Combeferre’s affections, and soon they found themselves sharing a small apartment near the university. In the years that followed, the spark of passion dulled, but under it all, their love still burned strong.

Few knew of their relationship. Though there was no crime in their love, there was still a need for caution. As such, only some like-minded men knew for certain that they were lovers, and a few more likely suspected it. None of Les Amis d’ABC knew that Combeferre had a lover. He did not speak of a mistress, and few inquired. Enjolras’s distain for romance offered a perfect shield from inquiry.

However familiar their love and however careful they were to hide it, their rational souls were still capable of passion, and just as young lovers, it came over them at unfortunate times. 

They were strolling through the park, returning to their rooms after dinner when the moonlit glanced off of Matthieu’s cheekbones, his nose casting a proud shadow, his lips sparkling and moist, his eyes soft and glowing. And in that moment, Combeferre was struck by the simple beauty of the man beside him, and, after a moments glance to ensure they were alone, ran his hand along the smooth skin of his cheek before tugging Matthieu down into a kiss. 

Matthieu returned it hungrily, his arms looping around Combeferre and pulling him in. After a few minutes of passionate kissing, he stilled, letting out a low breath against Combeferre’s lips. “My love,” he started, but was interrupted by a resounding crash a few blocks off.

“Perhaps we should return to our apartment,” Combeferre said, pulling back, and Matthieu nodded, looking around once more before taking Combeferre’s hand in his and pressing one last kiss to Combeferre’s cheek. 

They had long stopped making love every night, but they did then, Matthieu holding Combeferre in his lap as he rocked inside, Combeferre holding him just as tightly, wrapping his legs around Matthieu’s waist, running his hands across Matthieu’s sides and arms and face, kissing him wherever he could, whispering words of love.

He woke the next morning before the sun rose, Matthieu curled around him. Combeferre couldn’t help but smile as he kissed his sleeping lover’s lips before slipping out of bed. Aside from a pleasant soreness to remind him of the night’s activities, his thoughts barely fell upon Matthieu that day, and when they did, he did not dwell. That is, until he walked into the Musain for the meeting.

Grantaire was sitting in his corner, Bossuet and Joly to his left, Prouvaire and Bahorel to his right. He was loudly and drunkenly regaling them with a story of his exploits that Combeferre would have ignored had he not caught his own name.

“And then I saw—I saw, I swear, with my own two eyes—our own dear Combeferre, locked in a passionate embrace with another man!” he said, waving his bottle for emphasis. “Now, I had naturally had much to drink, but I knew I was not mistaken.”

Joly chuckled, and Combeferre felt his face go white. So everything was to be revealed. He had thought he and Matthieu alone, but he clearly had not been. He did not know what would happen, if he would be asked to leave, if he would be tolerated, if things could ever return to normalcy. 

He looked at Grantaire, willing him to shut his mouth, but Grantaire just smirked at the look of horror on his face and continued. “But I have not yet reached the pinnacle of my tale.”

“Did you watch Combeferre bend over and take it like a woman?” Bahorel asked with a laugh.

Grantaire took a long drink. “That would certainly have been a sight. But no. I went to greet them, and found myself speaking to a man who bore a striking resemblance in dress and feature to Combeferre, and a hideously ugly woman, with a great hooked nose and arms like tree branches,” he said, winking at Combeferre, who felt his face heat. 

“And then what happened?” Bossuet prompted.

“Well, I said to the couple, who was none too pleased about the interruption, I said, ‘Woman, you resemble greatly one of my good friend’s mistress, and if you are half as willing to part your legs as she, I reckon I know why this man bothers with you’ and then I turned to the man and gave him my humblest apologies that he was so burdened.”

“That wasn’t terribly kind,” Prouvaire said, shaking his head.

Grantaire shrugged, “I would feel more pity for the hideously ugly if I did not count myself among their ranks. Though, I suppose, a woman is only as good as her face, whereas I may be found unfitting in far more arenas.”

The group of them laughed, and the topic was changed. Combeferre felt relief wash over him, enough that his knees might buckle. For the rest of the meeting, he felt as though he were floating. All was well, he was safe, Grantaire, for all his rudeness and cynical words, would not reveal him. 

The worry returned when Grantaire caught up to him after the meeting, following Combeferre towards his apartments. “Grantaire, my friend. Have you had too much to drink? Your rooms are not this way,” Combeferre said.

Grantaire chuckled and threw an arm over Combeferre’s shoulder. His breath reeked of wine, and he smelled rank. His smile revealed his crooked teeth, the front one chipped, all stained yellow. Combeferre resisted the urge to shudder and shove him off. “My very, very dear Combeferre,” Grantaire began, “my eyes did not mistake me this last night. The game is up! I have caught you.”

“But you stopped. Before you told them.”

“I would have continued my story had I not seen your face. You looked as though you had seen a ghost. No—something worse. You looked as though the devil himself were standing in front of you, and all his minions by his side. I have never seen a man look so terrified in my life.”

Combeferre wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but Grantaire continued regardless. “I had thought, as did we all, that you were chaste as Enjolras or had as little luck with mistresses as Bossuet.”

Combeferre shook his head, shrugging Grantaire’s arm off him. “No, I have been lucky in love.”

“And not at all chaste, I presume,” said Grantaire. “What is your love’s name, if you don’t mind me asking? Something terribly romantic. Valentin? Jaques?” 

“Matthieu,” Combeferre answered, as he had no reason to lie. “Matthieu Barrand.”

Grantaire snorted. “For a second there, you looked like Pontmercy. He is that wonderful, your M. Barrand?”

“I love him,” Combeferre said, “I love him and he loves me in kind.” There was little else to say.

“Love is a game for fools,” Grantaire proclaimed, “I am gladdened to see that you are not as wise as you may seem.” A thought seemed to strike him. “You are not as chaste as I presumed. Tell me, is Enjolras truly as chaste as he proclaims to be, or does he too conceal his indiscretions?”

They turned down a darkened street, the shortcut to Combeferre’s apartments. It was unlikely they would be overheard. “Enjolras has as little desire for women as I do, and as little desire for men as Courfeyrac.”

Grantaire chuckled. “So he is a pure as the driven snow. More’s the pity, I had hoped to find him a dirty sod as well. Sins are ever so much more delightful when they are committed by those who claim to be angels. I shall have to be satisfied with you, Combeferre.”

“So you think me a dirty sodomite?” Combeferre asked. 

“Well, perhaps not dirty,” Grantaire replied, “You are the best sort of pervert—clean and impeccable in your morals. Who could suspect such a fine young man of such filth? I confess, I have gained a great deal of respect for you.”

“I suppose I should be relieved that I did not lose your regard entirely,” Combeferre said. 

“My regard should matter little to you, I am nothing but an ugly drunk,” Grantaire laughed. “But I am curious.”

“Yes?” Combeferre asked, cautiously.

“Have you ever lain with a woman?” Grantaire asked. “Told a pretty girl you loved her? Laid down a few coins for a prostitute?”

Combeferre shifted uneasily. “I would not toy with a woman’s heart, nor would I pay for a service I do not desire.”

“Have you fucked many men, then?” Grantaire asked, oblivious to Combeferre’s discomfort. “Besides your M. Barrand, that is.”

“I do not have to answer you,” Combeferre said, “What does it matter?”

Grantaire’s mouth fell open, “Perhaps I should ask who you have not lain with. Have you fucked all the pretty boys from here to the coast? Taken pleasure from the arses of every man who’d spread his legs? That would be delightful. Or perhaps you are the one who whored himself to—”

“I have done no such thing,” Combeferre said, affronted. “I have not engaged in sexual congress with more than ten men in all my days, and no one save Matthieu in years.”

“Oh,” Grantaire said, disappointed. “That sounds terribly boring. You know, I had a mistress once, before I realized what a horrid waste of my charms she was. She was almost as unpleasant and ugly as myself, and together, we made a horrid pair.”

“Why did you stay?” Combeferre asked, and Grantaire flashed his stained teeth in a sharp grin. 

“I found her insatiable,” he said, smiling. “But she left me for a man with coal-dark skin and a cock like a donkey and they sailed off to England together. I wish them all the luck in the world.”

“Kind of you,” Combeferre said. 

“No, it was only after she left that I was free to enjoy all the other little treats found in the underbelly of our city, and I confess I am troubled to hear that you have not also partaken of them. You are not terribly good at being a deviant, are you?”

“I wouldn’t know, having never tried.”

“Ah, but surely you and your M. Barrand have engaged in all manner of sins. We have already established that. Do you ask him to lie back and think of Patria, or do you let him bugger you? Do you play his little boy or is it the other way round?”

“We are neither of us boys, nor do we hold desire for them,” Combeferre pointed out.

“Not truly, but you know what I am saying,” Grantaire laughed, “Although he is taller than you and has a rather fine moustache, so I think I would be right if I were to say that the great and rational Combeferre bends over and takes it well.”

“We do not love as the Greeks, we love as equals,” Combeferre protested. 

Grantaire let out a groan. “As dedicated to your morals as ever! Combeferre, you disappoint me.”

“I am terribly sorry, but my sins are my own, not for your entertainment.”

“Bah! They are barely sins at all.”

“Most would say that buggery is vile in itself, now we must add paedophilia to suit your interests?”

“Ha, so you do engage in buggery. My hopes are restored.”

“Yet we do to each other in equal measures. And read passages of republican literature as we fuck, lest we stray too far into the territory of perverts.”

Grantaire threw his head back and laughed. “So your wit has not been fucked out of you. Tell me, what else do you do? Bind each other to bedposts? Spank each other’s bottoms? Piss in each other’s mouths? Like each other’s arseholes? All as equals, of course.”

“Why would anyone do any of those things?” Combeferre asked, slightly horrified. “What would possess a soul to lick another’s arse like a dog?” 

“Pleasure. Rather like cock sucking, an act all men should experience. If it comes time for us to die and you have not yet had your cock sucked, I might just do it for you,” Grantaire said.

“That won’t be necessary,” Combeferre said, not elaborating on the times he had spent on his knees, equal parts shame and arousal coursing through him, or the times he had felt Matthieu’s soft moustache against his thighs.

“Well, if you have sucked cock, which, I may add, I am delighted to learn, I would propose you challenge yourself. You can’t read nursery rhymes forever.”

“So you propose I lick his arsehole.”

“You make it sound so dire,” Grantaire said, “When I was young and my father still sent me money, before my horse-face mistress and I lay eyes on each other, I saw a prostitute, barely younger than myself, blonde and angelic, and I saw fit to purchase his services.”

Combeferre no doubt looked shocked, but Grantaire just waved it off. “He was lovely enough to be a woman. All men’s eyes turn towards pretty boys. I was young, though, I had I had no idea how such things were done. I only knew that if I did not lay with him, I would regret it all my days.”

“Really?” Combeferre asked. He had felt that way when he had first seen Matthieu, like he would die if he could not have a taste of his lips, like his heart would stop if his hand was not allowed to touch his face.

“Truly. The boy offered to lick my arsehole.”

“And did you accept?”

“Well, I thought for a few moments, and finally, I decided that there was no better use for my father’s money than to pay the prettiest boy I have ever seen to lick my nethers, so I gave what he asked for and a little extra for good measure.”

Combeferre, slightly absent the entire conversation, was suddenly enthralled and disgusted. Arse licking will do that to the most focused man. “And how did you find it?”

“Strange, but delightful. The boy was quite talented. He had clearly practiced, so I regretted the bottle of wine I had shared with him earlier and the kisses I gave him, but what can be said?”

“That is revolting.”

“Many have called me such,” Grantaire responded, unconcerned.

They were almost to Combeferre’s apartment, when Grantaire paused, suddenly serious. “If I asked you to kiss me, would you?”

Combeferre looked at his teeth, yellow and foul, and his stomach turned. He thought of Matthieu with the sun on his face, his smile soft, his teeth white. “No, I would not. Why would you ask?”

“Perhaps I desire greatly to be kissed by a man who will never love me,” Grantaire said. 

“But not me.”

“Not you, indeed.”

“I do not distain you enough,” Combeferre responded, “And I shall never love you because I love another. It would not be the same.”

“No. But it would be close.”

“Would you reveal me? If I do not kiss you now?” Combeferre asked.

Grantaire shook his head. “No. I would not. But I would very much like a kiss regardless.”

Combeferre placed a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “You are drunk. Go home.”

“I am always drunk, but home I shall go,” Grantaire said with a salute. “May your nights be filled with sensible, moral, and wonderfully philosophical depravity.”

“Charming as always, my friend,” Combeferre said, and there they parted ways.


End file.
